Anyone with picky grandparents of a certain leisurely class who left Guangzhou for Hong Kong would have heard the common refrain: “This choy sum has no taste!” Or the recurring “This chicken has no chicken flavour!” If your grandparents were from Shanghai, multiply the culinary complaints by a factor of ten.
Sure, luxury dried Chinese food products like abalone, sea cucumber, fish maw and bird’s nest are part and parcel of the repertoire of every Chinese restaurant worth its soy sauce. But as I’ve witnessed in post-pandemic China, even more quotidian, domestically grown ingredients are making a comeback after decades of neglect, with new cultivars outstripping Japanese produce and contending directly with European ingredients.
During a trip to celebrate Rosewood Guangzhou’s fourth anniversary, Doctor Henry Cheng Kar-shun, the patriarch of the New World Development empire, insisted that we stop by Foshan Golf Club for lunch before returning to Hong Kong. He wanted us to check out Chen Xiaolong, one of his favourite chefs from the Shunde region of Guangdong province. In a private dining room overlooking rolling green lawns and a lake, Chef Chen brought out that minimalist Cantonese classic: sliced, white chicken, simply poached and subsequently submerged in an ice bath for ideal succulence and crispness.
It was the famed kuaifa gai, the organic “sunflower chicken” which I’ve heard my grandparents wax poetic about. The plump birds live in sunflower fields, feeding only on sunflower seeds and leaves. When the flowers start to wilt, farmers cut up the flower heads and mix them with the leaves for the chickens to eat. Just as free-range Iberian pigs are deeply rooted in the Mediterranean ecosystem, feeding predominantly on acorns in the Dehesa (sparse oak forests) and acquiring a distinct flavour, the sunflower chicken’s diet of acid-rich oleic and linoleic oils from sunflowers gives the Cantonese bird its signature crisp yellow skin and bones.
Chef Chen confidently tells the servers to hold the accompanying purée of ginger and spring onion. “I want them all to taste the chicken first—as it is.” We took a bite and gasped. It was full of that “chicken flavour” sorely missed by our ancestors when they left Guangdong and settled for subpar poultry in Hong Kong. We were instructed to bite into and nibble on its brittle bone. The umami emanating from within was unbelievable. Chef Chen had merely poached the chicken in mineral water for 15 minutes, sans salt. All that profound flavour was from the chicken itself. Nobody bothered with the ginger spring onion dip afterwards.
Next was a bowl of chilled bitter gourd on ice, specifically Dading “Big Top” bitter gourds from Tanbian Village in Foshan. Its higher sugar content results in sweeter, crunchier melons (reputedly more potent at reducing internal heat). They’re picked at five in the morning and sent immediately to restaurants nearby. Chef Chen had sliced, blanched and marinated them in iced lemongrass water. Tender but crisp, they immediately trumped Taiwanese or Okinawan bitter gourds in my mind.
A bubbling claypot came out with stewed beef brisket and Chinese radishes from the district of Gaoming, also in Foshan. Everyone gasped again after a bite. Brisket is always satisfying, but the sweet crystalline chunks of melt-in-your-mouth radish, lacking any fibrous strands, truly stole the show. Perhaps the quality lard and tallow helped with its unctuousness, but the buttery radish was the star. Imagine that this doesn’t qualify as one of the “Four Greats of Gaoming” (the local variety of rice, ginger, kudzu and a species of black goose).
Gaoming was settled about 4,000 years ago. The temperate climate, ample rainfall and fertile Foshan soil created a radish that tasted superior to any heirloom Japanese daikon, even the Shogoin cultivar from northern Kyoto where the heavy snowfall allegedly produces the mildest of flavours. Different philosophies, I suppose, but I believe Japanese chefs would go gaga for a Gaoming radish in oden if they could ever get their hands on one.
Rice cooker baked pigeon (Photo: Rosewood Guangzhou)
Geoduck, black truffle (Photo: Rosewood Guangzhou)
I’ve always said that China is like East Asia’s Roman Empire, except that it never splintered off into different European nations, instead remaining as one giant political entity. The country has been forecast to become the world’s largest economy by 2030, and for now, China has just surpassed the EU. Geographically, China is as vast as Europe, and I can only focus on the first-tier cities in the south in this story.
What’s changed the culinary narrative is China’s efficient modern transport system, where quality ingredients from all over the country can now be transported across the country at relatively low costs that don’t break the bank, and with breakneck speed and efficiency.
It’s a fruitful and felicitous combination of Chinese pragmatism and obsession with good eating. It’s as if one can get the best Ibérico or Parma ham, or a fine Comté or fresh French artichokes in London without paying cutthroat London prices—or having access to fresh affordable Portuguese seafood from the Atlantic in Poland.
Seasonality is obviously de rigueur in the world of gastronomy, but according to Chinese culinary culture, it’s not just a suggestion but the law. Seasonal foods are “commanded by time”, shiling in Chinese, and the saying “bù shí bù shí” (not in season, don’t eat it) is a firm reminder that the finest produce has to be relished in delicious harmony with the season according to the agricultural lunar calendar.
During the late summer, all sorts of fungi from Yunnan arrive in major cities all over China. In Shanghai and Hangzhou, I came across many dishes featuring the intensely savoury and chewy ganba fungus (Thelephora ganbajun). This species, found only in the soils under pine trees in Yunnan, displays a pleasantly pungent aroma and flavour of concentrated pine.
I savoured a simple filigréed stir-fry of ganba with assorted fungi at Hangzhou House (on Amanfayun grounds but not affiliated with the hotel), which serves rustic yet refined farmhouse-style cooking. And at INT, a fun neo-bistro and natural wine bar in Shanghai, we were served moreish chicken wings stuffed with ganba fungus and duck liver, as well as a piping hot pizza of pine mushrooms (more popularly known by their Japanese moniker, matsutake) and the deeply fragrant ganba.
Pizza (Photo: INT)
Perhaps no other high-end restaurant better pays tribute to quality Chinese produce as the sexy and sensibly progressive Ensue on the 40th floor of Futian Shangri-La in Shenzhen. Chef Christopher Kostow, awarded three Michelin stars while at Meadowood, California, initiated tasting menus that fused a farm-to-table ethos with premium local ingredients from Guangdong, like 120-day-old Qingyuan chicken (the other famous Cantonese chicken) baked in sourdough. The restaurant has since expanded to showcase ingredients from all over the country. A map of China is displayed ceremoniously when the canapés come out, educating diners by highlighting the bounty from various regions of China.
Every three months, a different kitchen team embarks on an ingredient-sourcing excursion. Olive oil from Chengdu, flour from Beijing, Wagyu from Dalian, cacao from Hainan—the list goes on. The team ferment their own soy sauce and garum with leftover sourdough, churn butter from Cantonese water buffalo milk, and create vinegar from lychee, peach and plum, and seasonally with Chinese waxberries (yangmei; Myrica rub) and watermelon. Ensue’s winter menu also featured a Yunnan truffle shio koji.
The map of China (Photo: Ensue)
Steamed whiting (Photo: Ensue)
Yunnan has cultivated truffle for years, but in 2019, its farmers began to cultivate avocado and supply it to Ensue. Don’t expect hipster avocado toast at a restaurant inspired by Napa; the quintessential Californian ingredient is sliced thinly and paired with steamed whiting, topped with a cream of fish maw and Chinese caviar. Hearts of palm and black-skinned radishes are also produced by a Yunnan farm exclusively for the restaurant.
While spicy Sichuan cooking still reigns supreme outside of China (and in much of China too), the “it” cuisine among Chinese foodies seems to be Chaozhou (also known as Chiuchow or Teochew) at the moment. Like Cantonese cuisine, it is seafood-driven and delicately rendered, yet the Chaozhou approach to cooking packs more of a punch with its flavour profiles. It suits the modern Chinese palate and aligns with the overall trend for healthier eating, being less heavy-handed in the use of oils, chillies and spices.
The coastal Chaoshan area (Chaozhou, Shantou and Shanwei) in the eastern part of Guangdong keeps very distinct culinary traditions. The fisherfolk have always enjoyed raw marinated seafood—“Chiuchow ceviche” as I call it—and steamed fish and crabs served chilled. When they started immigrating to Southeast Asia and dominating the dried seafood and bird’s nest trade, refined versions of Chaozhou cuisine began to develop.
In Guangzhou, the place to be for late-night supper is Boss Zhou, a modern Chaoshan bistro playing rock and blues but offering traditional raw marinated crabs, clams, conch and whelks paired with congee. The “Zhou” in the English name refers to congee, as well as proprietor Nathan Chow’s last name, I gather. His family have always been fisherfolk and he gets the choicest catch from Shanwei, 300 kilometres from Guangzhou.
5 year old chaipo (Photo: Amazing Chinese Cuisine)
30 year old chaipo (Photo: Amazing Chinese Cuisine)
I’ve never come across a congee-coloured shade of dark mocha before. Chow reveals that it’s made using chaipo, the humble Chaoshan-style preserved radish that’s usually diced and tossed into omelettes, quick congees or fried rice for the flavour and crunch. But the ones he uses for his rice porridge are aged for more than 20 years. The oils of a glossy, black vintage chaipo dye the rice a chocolate colour and impart a deep umami.
In Shanghai, the first Michelin-starred Chaozhou restaurant, Amazing Chinese Cuisine, serves high-end contemporary Chaoshan fine dining. Uncompromising in quality and his adherence to Chaoshan culinary traditions, chef-owner Du Jianqing sends weekly requests for the famed Puning tofu produced by a couple in the town of Puning on the west rim of Chaoshan Plain. The fresh artisanal beancurd is transported every week, via truck from Guangdong to Shanghai.
Fresh crown conches from Shantou (Photo: Amazing Chinese Cuisine)
When I asked about which luxury ingredient was causing a stir at the moment, everyone, from Du to Bill Feng of Rosewood Guangzhou’s Lingnan House to Mike Liu, the restaurant manager at Ensue, seemed to mention the fresh crown conches, giant sea snails from the Chaoshan area. Indeed, it’s currently one of the most expensive seafood items in China. Sun-dried conch has always been one of those dried seafood mainstays for Cantonese tonic soups, but fresh Chaoshan conch exhibits a perky, chewy crunch with a delicate, briny sweetness. Such a clean, premium ingredient does not ask for much culinary conversion—it’s either served raw as sashimi, grilled over open fire or swiftly stir-fried.
Once upon a time, only the ultra-rich and powerful like the imperial consort Yang Guifei could get fresh lychees from Guangdong transported to Xi’an for her pleasure. Nowadays, first-rate seasonal produce from all over China can be enjoyed by most well-to-do urban Chinese in first-tier cities. China’s sophisticated gastronomic heritage is resuming after almost a century of slumber.
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